


because my body speaks the stranger's language

by Tieleen



Category: Everwood
Genre: Alternate Universe, Early Work, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-12
Updated: 2011-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-14 17:17:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tieleen/pseuds/Tieleen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes he wakes up in darkness and tries to remember what he's doing in Everwood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	because my body speaks the stranger's language

Sometimes he wakes up in darkness and tries to remember what he's doing in Everwood.

He _says_ it enough, in the waking hours. Not as much as he used to, but he still says it, as though he still hasn't quite let go. "Somebody remind me what exactly we're doing here?" Delia giggles, and Ephram scowls, if he's there. "Yeah, dad, what _are_ we doing here?"

It's only those two AM times when he realizes this, though. He doesn't know the answer.

Someone made a wish, he thinks, once. It's like a fairy tale from childhood, remembered in the dim glow of the alarm clock. Someone made a wish, someone was about to drown in their longing and their anger and their grief –

She breathes and turns around and he thinks, in that hour where things such as this make sense, she must have done this. Delia's always happy and Ephram doesn't like it here, or at least he says he doesn't, even if he smiles more than Andy can remember him doing in years. She must have done this, she asked him to change so many times and how is it that whenever he asks what he's doing in Everwood, it's never when she is around?

He remembers her mentioning this place, once, though he doesn't remember why. And he's sorry, he's so sorry that he made her do it, that the way he used to be was never enough and he never tried to make it better. But he's still the man who didn't want to leave New York, didn't want to quit his job, who wouldn't change by choice for twenty years and he almost hates her, a little, when he realizes that she must have chosen this for him.

He forgets all about it when he falls back asleep, can only remember the shadows of thought the next time he wakes up to darkness. There's no such thing as magic and he was never one for fairy tales, but the echoes of his hatred are in the air when he blinks at the ceiling and thinks about his old life away from here.

She mutters in her sleep and her hand brushes his arm, comes to rest on his stomach.

He knows she must have done this, because he knows he will never ask why he is here where she can hear him, that he is never going to ask her and wait to hear her answer, that he wouldn't do it even if he remembered to. He loves her so much, too much to do any of these things, and if it's her doing that this is the way things are – the way his life is, he who used to love her so much but never enough to stop being himself – his hatred is still so small in comparison to her hand on his body, her breath on his skin, her heartbeat in the darkness of this hour where magic could be real.


End file.
